


what's up, danger?

by Erotes



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: (maybe slightly more), Alternate Universe - Military, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Combat Medic Eddie Diaz, Firefam fulfill various roles, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, U.S. Navy SEAL Evan "Buck" Buckley, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and then VERY resolved sexual tension, chapter count is completely random and subject to increase, gratuitous military jargon and nonsense, it's war mi amigos, like very VERY slow, no beta squad, the boys are going to Hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29319069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erotes/pseuds/Erotes
Summary: In the Syrian desert, U.S. Navy SEAL Evan Buckley meets U.S. Ranger Medic Eddie Diaz. It does not go well.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the alternative fic title was "i see fire," so i hope you all are ready to SUFFER. please excuse the completely rampant amount of technical military stuff going on here; i promise it's just the background info. see the end notes for footnotes regarding terminology and helpful maps! i'll try to provide them each chapter.

Syria is uncomfortably dry in a way that reminds Buck a little too much of Southern California on its worst days. He can feel the heat radiating through the narrow vents in the beastly C-130 Hercules' hull, sinking into his skin. One might think that such a giant freighter would have better ventilation, but no, sir. It is hotter than hell. His light combat gear is already sticking with sweat, as if the endless back-to-back flights had not already made him smell terrible, and he can bet that the rest of the team smells just as awful. Not a single one of them is going to complain about it, however, because the U.S. Navy SEALs did not complain about anything, ever. They are too tough, too invincible, and too damned good at their jobs to be reduced to something as lowly as bitching. 

Petty Officer Second Class Evan Buckley, SEAL Team 3, Foxtrot platoon, has never subscribed to that philosophy. 

"This sucks," he mutters, because Buck did not survive nearly two years of hell to join the SEALs just to keep his mouth shut. If anything, he feels entitled to complain about the mundane aspects of the job as much as he wants, like sweating in ungodly weather, shivering in freezing water, finding sand in his socks weeks after deployment, and getting odd blisters on his feet from new boots. He would never say a word about any of the _real_ shit they had to deal with, and that is all that matters, in his book.

And it is also probably the only reason why none of his team has murdered him (yet). Foxtrot platoon is a more serious bunch, less prone to the cheerful griping that Buck has shared with Operators on other platoons and Teams. Unfortunately for them, their more solemn regard has not rubbed off on Buck in the slightest during the five years that he had been with Team 3. Fortunately for Buck, he is not totally alone on the relaxation front. 

"Cheer up, Buck," Chimney says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "It could be worse. It could be Kuwait."

An unfair observation, given that Petty Officer Second Class Howard Han — affectionately called Chimney by the team — had not even been on the hellish two-month deployment to Kuwait. He had simply heard how downright terrible it was second- and third-hand, and once, first-hand from Buck himself under dubious means (vodka, _so much_ vodka). Buck does not appreciate being reminded of _that_ particular shitshow, and he gives Chim an unimpressed look that says as much. "We don't speak of _Kuwait._ And that doesn’t make it any less hot _here_ , you know."

"Aw, Buck, I thought you were used to being hot," Chim says, consoling and mocking all at once. He pats Buck on the shoulder in an impressively patronizing manner, and then turns back to his book. How he can stand to read in the last 15 minutes of the final approach, Buck will never understand. It seems an impossible feat of superior concentration to Buck.

Approximately half of Foxtrot is penned up in this freighter, and somehow Buck has ended up with the quieter half. No one else seems to share in his restless enthusiasm, and ever since the flight crew had informed them of their descent, he is the only one who has obviously been going stir crazy. He has already tried to pester their resident bullfrog Johnny Graves — who has the dubious honor of sitting on Buck's other side — into speculating with him, twice. And been told, albeit affectionately, to pipe down, twice.

Buck can not help it. Their initial orders had been vague, alluding only to furthering interests for Operation Spartan Shield, the Department of Defense's long-running contingency operation against continued ISIL movement in the Middle East. That could mean anything from training the locals to tracking down insurgents, and Buck has been spinning theories wildly to cover anything in between for the majority of this last flight.

It _is_ possible, he wagers, that their final destination is not even Syria. More than once, his platoon has set down somewhere only to be moved within a couple of day or rerouted on their way home from a separate mission. With tensions heating up again in Iraq, at least some of Foxtrot could be sent out to back up U.S. and allied forces across the border. al-Tanf, the local military base coming up beneath the C-130, happens to be very close to that very border.

He just wants to _know_. Patience, much to his own and a long line of superior officers’ chagrin, has never been Buck’s strong suit. There was more than one reason why he had never even considered Sniper School, but his supreme lack of patience had been high on the list. It does not matter that he understands precisely why they have not received any detailed orders yet — all of their missions, of course, are highly classified, and while SEALs are not known to talk loosely, the head shed still took precautions. Common sense and basic procedure can not and will not stop Buck from bemoaning the fact anyway.

"Jesus, Buck," Chim says suddenly, reaching out a hand to clap it onto the blonde’s knee this time. He had not even realized he was jittering it up and down until he met the resistance of Chim's hand, thoroughly putting an end to the movement.

"Sorry," he says idly, in a tone that makes it clear that he is not sorry in the slightest. If he has to suffer of boredom and curiosity, Chim should have to suffer with him. That is the definition of brotherhood, after all: _for your teammates, always,_ and all that. Thou shalt not let your brother suffer inconveniences alone. He is just keeping Chimney honest.

"You’re not."

"Nope."

Chim gives him a _look_ and very pointedly flips the page of his battered paperback, indicating that he is reading once more. Buck considers knocking it out of his hand, if only to make him _talk to him_ , but the flight crew's announcement saves Chimney from Buck's worst impulses. 

_"Coming up on al-Tanf now, boys."_

"Finally," Buck sighs, echoed by none other than Graves. No doubt the older man was sick to death of Buck’s fidgeting and pestering, too. The blonde shoots him a grin, receives an eye roll, and turns his attention to making sure that he is all strapped up.

The last few minutes of any descent are the _worst_ , and Buck can only be glad that they battered his queasy stomach out of him in Basic. No self-respecting Navy soldier can get sea sick, or plane sick, or _anything_ sick, let alone one who plans on becoming a SEAL. Chief Nash had been pitying but firm when he confiscated Buck’s anti-nausea pills, and much as he had hated the man at the time, he appreciates it now.

His stomach does not even drop as they finally hit the ground, and Buck is bounding out into blessed freedom once they are given the all clear in beautiful, sickness-free health. Of course, he steps directly into the cloud of dust flying everywhere, but he swallows his coughs before Chim can make fun of him, shifting hastily out of the blast zone of the Hercules' blades. He already has sand in his gear, he can just feel it, and now it is well and truly in his lungs, too. 

"Welcome to Syria, everyone." Lieutenant Commander Matthew Griffon, Foxtrot's officer in charge, is waiting for them on the strip. He had come in with the other half of the platoon and arrived earlier that morning, presumably; he has already changed out of his travel gear into something heavier and sturdier. They never were entirely certain which route they took into any foreign country, and particular not in the Middle East, nor had one half of the platoon been privy to the other half's timing. The two C-130s had flown separate and distinct paths.

"Hey, Matty," Buck returns amongst a smattering of greetings, unconcerned with formality. Commander Griffon is a badass Operator and can run a tight ship, but he is not a tight-ass by any means — probably due to the fact that he himself is still under 30. His men are casual with him, unless protocol calls for otherwise. He responds just as well to Matt or Griff as to Commander, Griffon, or _sir_ , and has yet to put a stop to Buck calling him the even more damnable "Matty". It is a charming quality in an OIC.

As the remaining seven men form up around their officer, Buck twists his back briefly until it cracks. His base shirt sticks to his skin with the movement, which is disgusting, but he already knows that they will not be going any where near the barracks soon. Matt is here for a reason, and that reason is likely a lengthy debriefing and run down of their upcoming assignments.

Matt does not let him down. "Now that we’re all here, we’ve got orders. Hop to it, boys."

Buck hops to it gladly, more than ready to finally have a clue as to what he is going to be doing for the next six months. Besides, the sooner they get through this, the sooner he can change out of this gear and pry his sticky ass shirt off of his skin. He might have to ask Chim to help him surgically remove it, if it gets any hotter in the mean time. (It is not even midday yet, and he has negative hope on that front.)

"20 bucks says we're going to Iraq," Buck hisses to Chimney as they fall into line, who considers it for only a moment before taking that bet. 

—

Sometimes, Staff Sergeant Eddie Diaz regrets becoming a Combat Medic.

The problem is that he never dreamed of doing anything else, and he still can not imagine _not_ being a medic. No other role had quite fit right in Basic, and none of the other specialty schools had suited him as well as SOCM. Eddie knows that this is where he was meant to be — standing between his guys and death, one way or another, damnit — and he knows that he would never change a single thing about it. 

Still, sometimes he wishes he was not wired this way.

"C'mon, Scotty, stay awake." Eddie has both hands pressed firmly against the wad of cloth currently holding Alexander Scott's blood in his body, his head half turned to check on the status of the rest of the team. Someone has already slid into place behind Eddie, wrestling his kit free for him, and his quick headcount says that everyone else is accounted for in their make-shift rendezvous point. No one else appears to be bleeding, which means he only has one gunshot wound to deal with, and that is always a good sign.

"Rather not," Scott wheezes out in a rasp, fumbling a hand towards where Eddie is pressing down. He starts to press himself, firmly enough, and Eddie lets him as he turns to flip open the kit that has appeared at his side. "Damn, that hurts, Doc."

"I haven't even done anything yet," Eddie mutters, and then: "Keep that pressure there, Scotty, until I can get a look at it. Eyes open."

He gets a grunt that is more or less an agreement. _Good enough_ , he decides, working out a roll of gauze and sticking a needle between his teeth. He prefers to be prepared for either scenario, particularly when every minute determines just how much blood Scott is going to lose. Turning on the man once more, Eddie pats his wrist until his hand comes away, and then he is rucking up his shirt to get a good look at the actual damage. 

As it turns out, there is more blood than damage. He can already tell by the placement of the entry point that the bullet missed anything vital, and when he slides his hand under Scott he confirms that there is an exit wound. The bullet went clean through. Nothing to dig out; no organs or ribs to worry about patching up. The real issue here is going to be the blood loss, and getting Scott closed up before he can bleed to death.

His words are a bit muffled with the needle clenched in his teeth, but clear enough: "Alright, Scott, not bad." 

" _Not bad_ isn't exactly _good._ " There is a touch of relief in his voice, underlined by the pain; at least he is in a good enough mood to be joking, bullet hole be damned. That is always a good sign, in Eddie's book.

He tosses the gauze back in his kit, settling for stitches — neater, cleaner, and less likely to need a re-do back at base. They are faster, too, when there is this much blood flow to staunch. "You're about to be great. Just a couple of stitches. Hold still, yeah?"

Scott, for all his bitching, is a model patient. He holds still as instructed, slowing his breathing as much as he can so as not to jostle Eddie's hands, and rolls to his side before Eddie can ask. Laying down sutures is easy enough work, and when they hold, Eddie feels like he can breathe again. They will be able to get Scott back to base like this, and he should be fine. He _will_ be fine. Scott is not Greggs, and Eddie is not going to let him be. 

All together, getting Scott patched up takes roughly ten minutes, which is about ten minutes longer than they wanted to be stuck here. They are not nearly secure enough, what with their _actual_ rendezvous point currently reduced to a pile of rumble and flames; Eddie had to patch Scott up in the back of the RSOV. The team is ready to move as soon as Eddie clears Scott, and they do so quickly. The Bravo site is roughly five miles out from where the smoldering Alfa site lies, which means they have some ground to cover if they plan on catching their ride out of here. 

Eddie is not sure where, exactly, things went wrong. Their six man squad had two objectives to cover: a relatively simple supply run, delivering medical equipment to the one of the rebel outposts located just southeast of Sabaa Biyar; and, following that, reconnaissance closer to the city itself. The supply run was supposed to be the easier of the two, more or less a cover for their true objective; while the outpost is outside of the reach of the U.S. deconfliction zone, it still lies within the largely rebel-controlled territory outside of Sabaa Biyar. It was, objectively speaking, way less of a risk and significantly lower priority than the recon assignment. 

And yet, somehow, every thing went to complete and utter shit during the supply drop. They lost one of the two RSOVs, including all of the equipment it was carrying, roughly a mile out from the outpost; both vehicles had come under fire suddenly, and the downed RSOV's crew barely had enough time to get out of the way before the whole damn thing went up in flames. There was chaos, trying to shuffle the three soldiers into the remaining RSOV and return fire at the same time, and Scott was shot in midst of it all. They had had no choice but to pull back and make for the Alfa rendezvous point to regroup, but waiting for them at the smaller camp was an ambush. They had to secure the area before they could do anything to help Scott or reassess the situation, and somewhere in the shoot-out, over half of the tires on their second RSOV went — which was more than their one spare allowed for. 

It was some pretty shit luck, and Eddie is tired of shit luck when it comes to his guys.

“Vandy 1, this is Romeo. Rendezvous Bravo. Request MEDSOV, out,” Oscar Fenn, their designated RTO, says into the radio at his shoulder as soon as they start moving. Eddie can not hear the rest of the exchange, but Fenn does not reroute them, so Bravo must still be a go. 

The problem with Bravo, however, is that it is five miles across the Syrian desert. The Alfa point was conveniently located at the outskirts of the town-turned-outpost they were meant to meet in, which provided at least some cover and, of course, was a close pickup point to their objective, should they require evac. There is shit cover across the desert, low visibility if the wind kicks up and takes the sand with it, and getting picked up by the MEDSOV means waiting for it to arrive, which has its own host of issues.

For a second choice, it is a pretty shitty one, but Eddie does his best to stop thinking about it. There is nothing to be done. They lost both of their vehicles, and Scott will have to be evac'd, anyway. There is no Charlie rendezvous point, which means this is officially their best and only option, and it will be _fine_. Eddie will not be losing anyone today. 

He glances sideways at Scott, making sure that he is keeping pace with them without too much struggle, and then he stops thinking about anything but the ground in front of them. It is only five miles, after all. They have survived significantly worse.

—

First order of business: Foxtrot platoon is being split up into four four-man teams, two of which will be crossing the border into Iraq and breaking down further into two-man recon teams. Buck shoots Chim a smug look as soon as the decision is announced, because he was at least _half_ right. He will have to negotiate for 10 dollars of their original bet after their briefing is over. In the mean time, he gets to listen with rapt attention to the run down on the Iraq situation, idly wondering if he will be on one of the teams. He gets his answer soon enough, when half the men are dismissed and sent to group up with one of the local commanders for further direction, and Buck is not one of them. 

"One team will be with me, while the other will be led by Chief Ward," Matt says, as a blown-up map of northwest Syria appears on the screen behind him. Buck makes out _Idlib_ in bolded letters, marked as their destination, and gathers that they are more or less looking at an HTS hotspot. There is a lot of red on that map. "We have two targets. Ward, you will be taking the first. In the past few weeks, the Idlib province has been one of the most heavily contested territories at stake. Tahrir al-Sham continues to control the majority of the province, and we have reason to believe that they are congregating their leaders in the area."

 _Fire team_ , Buck thinks immediately, chewing his lip as he watches Matt indicate an even smaller portion on the map. Hat'at Tahrir al-Sham — HTS — has been on the U.S. terrorist list for nearly two years now, despite attempts to "reform" their public image. HTS wants everyone to believe that because they are a conglomerate of an endless amount of rebel organizations, they're the good guys. In reality, the primary group in the merger was al-Nusra Front, Syria's very own official al-Qaeda branch, and the new organization never stopped running an underground al-Qaeda campaign. Definitely not the good guys. 

And the only reason the SEALs have any interest in their leaders, historically, is to take them down. 

"Rachid Baradedi defected from Ahrar al-Sham in 2017 and joined Tahrir al-Sham some time soon after." The map is replaced by the U.S. intelligence's profile on the man, complete with grainy photos. "Intelligence suggest that he is a higher ranking commander, operating with somewhere between 20 to 30 men, and that he is currently in the Idlib province."

Again, more maps. Buck is only half listening as Matt runs through the technicalities and specifics of the mission; the exact details do not pertain to him, any way, and he gets the general gist of what his brothers will be doing before Matt has even finished laying out the background information: taking this guy out, permanently. He has returned to speculating about their own task by the time Matt dismisses Chief's team, who do not need to stay for the remainder of the briefing now that they have their orders. 

Finally — _finally_ — Matt turns to address his own team: Buck, Chimney, and Petty Officer Second Class Josh Russo. Buck does a quick run-down in his head, marking that that puts them with sniper, breacher, corpsman, and communications. Most fire teams have two snipers, if not a machine gunner, and rarely require a Corpsman; while their formulation is not too odd, and may be shuffled, it suggests that they might have a less straight-forward mission. Particularly if Matt himself is going to be with them. 

"This is Gulmurod Khalimov." A new dossier appears on the screen, only slightly less sparse than Baradedi's. "Originally the commander of Tajikistan's special police force, later minister of war of ISIL. He disappeared in 2017, allegedly killed by a Russian airstrike in Deir ez-Zor. As of March, we have affirmative evidence that he is alive, in Idlib, and still operating with ISIL forces. We have little to no information about his level of involvement, or if he has any men currently under his command. Our primary goal is reconnaissance, but snatch-and-grab is on standby." A pause, and then, "This may also become a shoot-on-target. The situation will be dynamic."

Such murky orders actually are not all that uncommon. A lot of times, the job changed while they were already in the field; shit happened, new intel emerged, whatever. Buck is not surprised to hear that their objective might shift so fluidly, not when they have approximately jackshit on this guy. Most likely, they will get a final decision on how to proceed after they have already done some recon on the situation. They were meant to be adaptable and quick on their feet, and besides — it made things more interesting. 

"We'll be out at first light," Matt concludes, "Get settled, get some rest, and meet me for dinner. We'll cover more of the details then, and on the ride out. I'll email you what I have for you now." 

"Good talk, Matty." Buck is relieved to finally stand, after hours cooped up in the Hercules and sitting through debrief, and he is looking forward to shaking the sand out of his boots. And maybe to rinsing off the sweat caking itself to his body. That would be nice, too. He can tell by the looks on Chim and Josh's faces that Matt's dinner plan is a good call in their minds, too.

Some dreams, particularly those we care ever so deeply about, are short-lived. Buck has barely taken a step towards the door when it is opening of its own volition, a communications specialist appearing with eyes on Matt. Stepping in on a briefing, let alone a SEAL briefing, is practically sacrilegious. It is only done when it is urgent, and Buck has a bad feeling about it when Griffon motions for the team to stay.

"Commander, sir," the soldier says, standing only briefly at attention until Matt waves her off, more intent on hearing her news. "We have a Ranger unit pinned down outside the deconfliction zone. They got waylaid on a mission and called for med evac, but the MEDSOV sent out stopped responding just before it was expected to reach their rendezvous. We also lost communication with our unit."

Never a good sign. A small team, equipped with only one RTO, might go AWOL on the comms and it would not be an immediate red flag — but losing contact with their medical vehicle and crew? On a mission that has already gone south in some way? That is definitely an issue, and potentially a really, really bad one. Especially when they officially have no intel on the situation on the ground.

"Okay," Matt says, alert, as he pulls the paper map spread across the table towards her. "Show me what we're dealing with. I can get a four-man team on the ground, run rescue."

"They were meant to be rendezvousing at Bravo." Buck leans forward to watch as she points things out on the map as she speaks. Chim and Josh have come closer as well, listening closely. There is little doubt that this is about to be their mission, after all; where Matt goes, they go, officially.

"They reported an ambush at Alfa, here, and we lost communications shortly before we think they were meant to arrive. That puts them somewhere in this area." A circular motion, somewhere to the southeast of Sabaa Biyar (marked in black, an unfortunate indicator of Syrian regime control). "Our medical team was coming from this angle—" a tap to the opposite side of the Bravo point, marked in bright blue and a B, "And went offline close to arrival as well. We're estimating that the Bravo zone is surrounded, or at least penned in from west and east. SOAR is on stand-by."

Matt nods, and then straightens up. "Alright, walk with me. I want to know everything you can tell me, and it sounds like we don't have any time to waste." He turns to look at his team, still assembled and waiting for the order, and smiles grimly. "Well, I think we might have to take a raincheck on those dinner plans. Rally in five."

Right to work, then. It is a damn good thing that SEALs were used to this kind of hasty dispatch, because Buck is pretty sure there is not another group of men on the planet who could get their rucks dropped off, changed into heavy combat gear, weapons primed, and on that airstrip in the four minutes flat that they managed it. Unless they were also SEALs, of course. Being quick and efficient is sort of in the job description.

Matt is waiting for them in front of a MH-47E Chinook, the blades already whirling swiftly above his head, when they hit the airstrip. They make short work of joining him, bounding into their ride, and Griffon climbs in after. It is louder than all hell with the rotor running overhead, but he still hears the Lt. Commander loud and clear when he shouts over the noise: "Hope you're not bored now, Buckley!"

Buck laughs, giddy with the beginning trickle of adrenaline, and yells back, "No way, _sir!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This fic is picking up in roughly July/August of 2019. [Here](https://www.polgeonow.com/2019/09/syria-control-map-2019.html) is a stellar overview of the territory we're looking at, with an annotated map, but geography isn't actually super important unless you're curious.  
> 2\. The [C-130 Hercules](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lockheed_C-130_Hercules) is a standard and versatile aircraft employed by all branches of the military, used widely for troop and cargo transportation.  
> 3\. The term "bullfrog" refers formally to the longest serving Navy SEAL in active service, and is used informally to refer to the member with the longest service history within a platoon or smaller team. SEALs are generally calls frogmen or frogs, hence the term. Formally, they are called Operators.  
> 4\. [Operation Spartan Shield](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Spartan_Shield) is an on-going, multi-branch operation in the Middle East.  
> 5\. The [al-Tanf Garrison](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Tanf_\(U.S._military_base\)) (At Tanf) is the U.S. military base in Syria, along the Iraq border. It is surrounded by the "55 km area," otherwise known as the United State's "deconfliction zone" (DCZ), is an American-controlled area publicly marked as off-limits to Syrian government and pro-regime forces. It was established a a training ground in the fight against ISIL.  
> 6\. [SOCM](https://www.military.com/military-fitness/general-fitness/who-attends-the-special-operations-combat-medics-socm-course), aka the Special Operations Combat Medics course, is the short-hand for any Ranger Medic's primary qualification training. It is considered an individual, specialty school (post-Basic training).  
> 7\. The Rangers employ light-weight [Ranger Special Operations Vehicles](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ranger_Special_Operations_Vehicle), aka RSOVs. The medical team's equivalent is modified and referred to as a MEDSOV (Medical Special Operations Vehicle).  
> 8\. An RTO is a Radiotelephone Operator, essentially a Ranger team's communications specialist. There are [very complicated radio communication rules](http://www.stanag6001.com/radio-communication-rules/). Any callsign not clarified or explained in text isn't super relevant. Though, fun fact: "Romeo" is often attached to an RTO's callsign to stand for "radio", though here it is being used as a standalone callsign.  
> 9\. A more thorough overview of Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tahrir_al-Sham). Targets and insurgents mentioned by name are either real or based very closely on real figures, but I will not be linking information on them (given that it is likely to be modified or bastardized entirely for the purposes of this fic).  
> 10\. 160th SOAR(A), nicknamed SOAR or Night Stalkers, refers to the Army's best aviators: the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne). Navy SEALs are predominantly transported in Army aircrafts, and SOAR is specifically trained for working with the special forces. The MH-47E is SOAR's variant of the [CH-47 Chinook](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boeing_CH-47_Chinook#Variants).


	2. Chapter 2

The Bravo point is a hell of a lot closer by air, particularly in the powerful Chinook currently bundling them off to their destination. It does not give them a whole lot of time to put together a plan, and as soon as the team has finished strapping in, their pilot is calling back the appropriate radio frequency. Matt barely has time to yell back a confirmation before the helo is moving. They have places to be, after all. 

Josh passes Buck his headset, produced out of that godawful rucksack of his, and moments later Buck is tuning into the conversation. Their own personal Night Stalker's voice crackles to life in his ear, loud and clear. 

" _Welcome aboard, boys. This is Aviator Henrietta Wilson; I'll be getting you in there and helping you get our men out. It is 1134 Bravo, estimated time of arrival 1157."_

23 minutes is not ideal, but it is enough.

Matt says back, "Copy. Thanks for the ride, Night Stalker," and then turns in his seat to address the team. The three of them lean forward, all business — even Buck. "We're going in blind, but we can expect live hostiles in the immediate area. There are at least two vehicles down, maybe three, which means those men are coming out of there with us. We may have to tank a few trucks. As of right now, this is a search and rescue."

Buck can hear what Matt is not saying; they all can. They could be flying into a _recovery_ mission; there could be no one left standing out there to rescue. There is no point of dwelling on that thought now, though. Until they know otherwise, those men are still alive down there, and they damn well will be coming out of there alive, too. That is why they were sending SEALs. 

It is not so much that no one else could handle the job. The Rangers are a formidable force in their own right, and every one of those men on the ground are capable warriors. But Buck and all of his brothers who wear the Trident have no choice but to believe that they are the best. Their personal brand of arrogance is hard won, and without it they could not do their jobs. His sister had once told him that the surgeons in her ward were some of the most arrogant bastards she had ever met, but that their god complexes were a necessary evil: they could not doubt, for a single second, that they were not the best doing the best work possible. That kind of hesitation and self-doubt makes for a shitty surgeon. 

Buck has often thought that the same logic applies to frogmen. He has to have an unwavering faith in himself and in his brothers, not only that they will defeat any enemy, but that they will make it through to the other side at the end of the day. So, they are going to get those men out of whatever hell they have found themselves in, and they are going to bring them back alive, one way or another. 

"Plan on fast roping into Bravo. We should have eyes on it before we jump, but I'm not counting on having too much of an idea of what we are walking into. There could be an active fire fight down there, and we don't have time to hike it in from further out." Matt does not sound thrilled with that, but then, he tends to be a control freak. Not having information, and knowing that they were not going to have much time to gather any on-site, has to be bothering him. "I'm counting on having quite a few medics on the ground, so Chim, I want you to stick with Buck and take lead. Josh, you'll be with me. If I can find a nest, and have to use it, I'm going to need you to spot."

"Copy," Chimney chimes, echoed a moment later by Josh. 

"Buck, I'm going to need you on stand-by to breach," Matt carries on, pausing only to give the blonde time to nod, "We should keep communication with the helo at that range easy enough. Josh, you'll be my comms. That work for you, Wilson?" 

_"Sure, he'll do_."

Buck shoots Josh a grin, who offers only a slight smile in acknowledgement. The other man is already drifting into his zone, energy subdued and calm, but Buck has never been the type to ramp down for a mission. As soon as the adrenaline hits his system, he is burning to get moving and let it all out. It helps that his role as breacher usually means that he is the first one in, tearing ahead to clear the path for his boys. 

"We are looking at nine friendlies on the ground. The Ranger team went in with six, and Medevac took a TC and two medics." Matt leans back, looking contemplative, but the truth of the matter is that there is not much more they can go over this far out. They will need a visual first. They let him think, because interrupting Matthew Griffon's train of thought is a graver sin than anything banned by the Bible, and a few moments tick by before he sighs. "What're our callsigns, Buck?"

Chim lets out a groan, but the blonde was looking forward to this exact question. It is a long-standing tradition that Matt let Buck pick the themes for their ever revolving callsigns, in honor of the ridiculous trivia that he is prone to spouting. Nearly four years ago, Buck had explained Latin America's local bird population to Matt in great detail, and the Lt. Commander had proven to have a sense of humor by assigning them all bird names for the next three training runs.

"I'm so glad you asked, Matty," Buck says cheerfully, clapping his hands as he leans forward to regard the other three Operators. "See, on the way over, I started thinking—" he ignores Chimney's muttered " _never a good sign_ " and carries on, "—why Living Coral? I mean, what a bland color, if you ask me. So, I started looking into other color names, and wow, are there some much better options out there. Sherwin-Williams is a creative genius, if you ask me." 

Chimney looks unimpressed. Josh, however, seems mildly interested, and Matt has not stopped him yet, which is a win in Buck's book. 

"You'll be Sky Fall, for those pretty blue eyes," he informs Matt, because their OIC always had the honor of coming first. "Chimney, you're Smokehouse." That one is self-explanatory. "Josh, you're Retro Mint. I remember that photo, man. I remember. And I'm Salty Dog, because it's awesome." He grins at the bemused looks on their faces, and then adds, "Oh, Wilson, I've got one for you, too. I was thinking Roman Column." 

_"Marvelous,"_ comes her dry response over their headsets. 

"That's fine," Matt says after a moment, with a slight shake of his head. Buck can only think of three occasions where the Lt. Commander vetoed one of his choices, but he is still pleased with the acceptance anyway. It keeps his fragile little ego alive and well, Matty's approval, and he angles a shit-eating grin at the man that says as much.

(Buck has expressed similar sentiment many, many times in the past. Matt knows what Buck is thinking just by the look on his face, no doubt.)

"Seriously, Buck," Chim says after a moment of silence has passed. "Just, why? Isn't there anything else you could devote your energy to? Something useful?" 

"Never." 

Matt lets them banter back and forth for a while. Buck is pretty sure that they are only getting a reprieve so that he can run through as many contingency plans in his head as possible in their limited amount of time, and sure enough, they are ten minutes out when he sits forward again. "Alright, let's talk strategy. We should have visuals coming up here, soon." 

Lieutenant Commander Matthew Griffon really is something of a genius. He never admits to it, but Buck is fairly certain that he must have graduated at the top of his class, or at least very close to it, at Annapolis. (Buck has tried to find out before, but Matt seems to have a gag order out, the thorough bastard.) The guy researches almost as obsessively as Buck in preparation for deployments (a much more worthy cause), and as much as it could be a pain in the ass to run through five different contingency plans (at a minimum), the fact of the matter is that they are never unprepared. Matt's freakish level of preparation had saved their asses more than once, when the close to impossible or simply down right absurd happened. 

Buck appreciates it. He does. He just also appreciates giving Matt a hard time about it, when they are back at home and peacefully cruising through PT runs. He does not have a damn thing to say about it just then, however, because they have _no_ idea what to expect, and Matt is capable of expecting anything and everything. If he had been confident before, Buck is downright certain of their success after Matt finally decides that they have covered enough what-ifs to satisfy him. 

_"Coming up on Bravo now."_

The Bravo rendezvous point is located in a tiny town southwest of Sabaa Briyar, if the hastily constructed and clustered array of six or seven buildings can honestly be called a "town." At some point it had served as an SDF base, but now seems to be abandoned for use by U.S. and rebel forces. As of yesterday's intelligence, no one has truly occupied the small outpost in months. That is what had made it such a good rendezvous point. 

In theory, anyway. 

Everything is utterly still down below as they pass slowly over the town, maintaining their distance but getting close enough for a visual. Peering through the narrow windows is not super ideal, but it works well enough for getting their first eye on the ground. There is not much to look at, and no sign of any active shootout, or any sign of the men they are looking for. 

"MEDSOV on our starboard side," Chimney calls, and sure enough, as they bank around to take another pass, Buck can make out a solitary vehicle halted just outside the town limits. They all have their attention fixed on it, but there is no movement. It has been abandoned, and the smoke twisting slowly in the air suggests that it might even be down for the count. 

Buck is not afraid to admit that it is creepy. 

_"We've got heat, upper quadrant,"_ Wilson announces, followed swiftly by, _"I've only got bodies in one house, too close together to get a count."_

"No sign of a second group?" Matt asks, his eyes still trained on the ground below as they drift a little more off-center, hovering closer to the house Wilson had indicated, no doubt. 

_"Nothing coming up on radar._ _"_

"Probably too much to hope that their attackers beat it," Buck mutters, unnerved by the continuing stillness. "Think they've got our boys in that house?" One group of bodies, after all, could mean that their objective and their enemies were in the same place. 

Or it could mean that one group was no longer warm enough to put off a signature for the thermal radar. 

"Could be cloaking," Chim suggests, shaking Buck out of his grim thoughts. 

_"Or, our boys already got the bastards,"_ Wilson puts in, sounding confident, and yeah, Buck likes that version of his own thought better. The Ranger unit did not have back up, so they would have to sit tight and wait for evac even if they had neutralized the enemy. 

"Won't know until we get down there." Matt is straightening, starting to check through his tac-vest methodically. The rest of the team follows suit, and Buck is buzzing with energy, with the promise of finally getting down there. 

He runs through his own inventory quickly, pulling his roping gloves on one hand with his teeth while the other pats over various pockets to confirm their contents. He and the rest of the team are ready to go within moments — really, they'd been ready to go the second they got on the helo — and then Chim is approaching the door with a thick rope. 

"Roman Column, we're ready to jump," Matt says, his tone firm and serious, but Buck catches the quick upturn of a smile as he uses the callsign. He is not at all smug about how good of a name it is, nope. 

_"Copy that, Sky Fall. Banking... You are clear to deploy the rope."_

Chim tosses the end out the gap, testing the tension as the coil starts to grow smaller and smaller in his hands, until there is just one taut line stretched across his palms. It looks simple and unassuming, for something that is about to literally carry their weight and lives. "Rope deployed."

_"You are clear to jump."_

"Copy," Matt says, and nods to Chim. The rope exchanges hands — Matt is always the last one out, watching their backs from the sky and keeping the rope steady — and in the next moment, Chim is disappearing. 

A thrill rockets through Buck, and he bounces lightly on his toes as he takes a step forward, watching Josh lean out to check Chim's descent before he is gone, too. The rush of adrenaline is fresh as spilt blood, and he's vibrating with it by the time he gets his hands wrapped around the cord. 

Matt nods, and then Buck is flying. 

Well, more like shooting straight towards the ground, the rope a flash of warmth against his palms as he falls and falls. A laugh rises in his throat, swallowed down, but he is grinning by the time his feet hit solid ground, face flushed with the wind and the pure joy of roping.

Chim clasps his shoulder, steadying him as he releases the rope to get out of the way. "Look a little less cheerful, would you?"

As Matt follows them down, Buck tempers his grin to a more appropriate smile, just for Chim, and as the dust settles around them he is getting his first good look at the town several yards out. 

"Roman Column, we are clear," Josh says into his headset, taking over responsibility for the comms seamlessly. Wilson's reply crackles in Buck's ear, loud and clear, but he tunes it out as he lets his gaze sweep back and forth. 

They are primed and ready, already dropping into a clipped jog at Matt's signal, but there is still no movement except for the faint ripples of air as the Chinook starts to rise a bit higher. It was not an ultra stealthy arrival, and if there was anyone there to fight, they would have heard it and opened fire by now. But there is nothing. 

They hit the first building and slow, tucking against its far wall. Buck is barely winded, but he is sweating now — from the heat, and the tension running through him, hot and heady. He swipes at his forehead swiftly as Matt turns partially towards them, indicating with a point and a nod of his head that they are splitting up. 

Buck and Chim duck across to the building opposite, knowing instinctively that Matt means for them to split up exactly as he had outlined it for tomorrow's mission. In tandem, their two teams will sweep each house, checking rooms and floors, and secure the area as they inch towards the upper quadrant. They will find the Rangers, too, and then they will get the hell out of here, nice and simple. Maybe without even a firefight, if the eerie silence of the town is any indication. It is a good plan.

There is a soft humming as the Chinook passes by overhead, adjusting position to get another scan of the town. He can hear Wilson narrating the readings in his ear, low and steady, but he has eyes only for the door up ahead of them. He almost misses the faint click, reflexes the only thing that bring him up short, motioning to Chim and listening. 

Humming, the thick thrum of rotary blades spinning. His quiet breathing, echoed by Chimney's. He strains to hear what he had heard before, not entirely convinced that he had not imagined it, but after several long, silent moments, he nods. A shadow passes across Chim's face as the helo carries on in its rotations overhead, all normal and clear. 

That is when all hell breaks loose. 

—

It has been quiet for too long, Bravo point coated in a thick silence. Eddie hates it, because it means he can hear the shallow breathing of his guys all that more clearly, hear the way that Scott's air rattles in his chest and stutters out in wet, broken gusts. Eddie's carefully laid stitches, ripped right back open, are the least of his problems now. There are more holes in Scott's body, more spots for Eddie to patch up and try to keep from being the one to turn fatal. 

He has done the best that he could, under the circumstances, with three wounded, another beyond saving, and the rest battered to hell. 

Anger and guilt and fear fight to claw their way up his throat, trying to smother him, but he keeps his breathing slow and his hands steady as he runs another check on Scott's new stitches and gauze before turning towards his next charge: Lena Bosko, one of the medevac team that had driven out here to get them. The irony is not lost on Eddie as he checks her over, again, ignoring the pointed look she gives him. This is his third round of perusals, and even with a clipped shoulder Bosko can monitor herself, but if he does not do it he might go crazy. 

It is not like there is anything else _to_ do. 

Fenn has bits and pieces of his radio strewn across the floor, trying to make something of the smoking mess, but as talented as he is, Eddie's not sure that they are going to get anywhere with that shot up piece of junk. They lost the sat phone somewhere in the complete and utter shit show that had been waiting for them at Bravo, because absolutely nothing about this mission was going according to plan and Eddie's luck was just that shitty. So, they have no line of communication. 

And they are still pinned down, trapped inside the barricaded house. 

Fortunately, their defenses have held, their position just perfect for fortress defense (a generous term, applied to this dump). The insurgents cannot even get close enough to attempt a breach, held off by the volley of returning fire that the Rangers can squeeze off from their narrow vantage points. However, they also cannot get out of the house, because the rain of bullets will come right back in their direction the second they try. It has fallen into a stalemate, and they are still stuck in it. Eddie is not even sure how long it has been. 

The only stroke of good luck that they seem to have managed is the fact that these guys do not appear to have anything super heavy duty on them. If they did, they would have blasted the door in and taken the house by storm by now. The fact that they have not means that they probably only have those machine guns to work with, which is a nice up-side. A small one, but still. Eddie will take what he can get at this point. 

"Staff Sergeant," someone calls softly — the other medic that had come in with Bosko, something Logan — and Eddie glances up towards him in question. The guy has his eyes directed upwards, towards the roof, and a moment later Eddie hears it too: the _thum-thum-thum_ of helicopter blades. 

The relief that hits him is palpable, easing the knot of dread and uncertainty that had twisted in his gut from the very first moment his team took fire. He had known that someone was going to get to them eventually, but the realization that they are here is a breath of fresh air all the same. 

"Okay," he murmurs, listening closer as he rises from his crouch at Bosko's side and heads towards the door. He can not hear anything else shifting around outside, even if he knows that those bastards must still be out there, somewhere. With any luck, they will flee at the sight of the helo, and then he will be able to get his guys out of here a bit easier. 

The others are moving, quietly and slowly, to get into a more ready position. Soft murmuring and silent hand signals, men supporting the wounded that need it. Eddie eases the grate covering the door's upper viewport carefully, confident that the helo will have distracted their enemy from shooting at the first sight of movement. For now, at least. 

He cannot get eyes on any of them, but the roof that several shooters had been perched on across the way is empty now. He _can_ see the MH-47E Chinook that cruises by overhead, running reconnaissance before deploying her hidden troops, no doubt. It passes back in the other direction, but there is no burst of gunfire. Where ever those bastards have disappeared to, the crew up there does not seem to see them. Unease creeps through his veins. 

"Get ready to lay cover fire," he says, turning towards his team once more, unable to shake the sense that this is far from over. "Unfriendlies are still out there, somewhere, and they're hiding from the bird. I'm not going to see another ambush go down."

There are nods, and the slotting of new mags into weapons as the unit tightens up. Ready to go, just as determined to keep their latest rescue team safe as Eddie is. He is starting to run low on gauze, so he really fucking hopes that this is the last one they will need. 

His hand falls on the deadbolt this time, and he slides it back slowly. When Eddie starts to ease the door open, he have expects the shots to start raining down again immediately. But there is nothing, not even when the door swings a little wider: clear, tempting bait. Eddie takes a step out, gun resting carefully against his shoulder, as he gets a better look at the hideout the insurgents had tucked into. 

Empty. 

He stays just in front of the doorway, scanning the nearest buildings, the roofs, anything. The only movement he can see is the helo as it starts on another pass over, drifting towards their location, the humming growing louder once more. 

When he glances over his shoulder, Fenn is in the doorway just behind him, gaze up on the helo. "Rope's down."

Which meant that there are men on the ground with them now, somewhere beyond these shabby walls, with a band of hostiles either lurking between them or long gone by now. Eddie chews it over and then murmurs, "Okay, get ready. We're going to need—"

Their world, so quiet a moment ago, explodes into noise. 

Eddie whips around, recognizing the boom for what is it but still unbelieving until he _sees_ the streak shooting up towards the Chinook. It veers, a narrow miss, and the sound of gunfire erupts in the very close distance. It looks like their rescue team has walked into another ambush anyway, and Eddie grits his teeth before he relays to Fenn, "We're going to have to take these guys down before we go anywhere. Consider this our new rendezvous; casualties staying here, the rest of us are going to go help those guys out."

Fenn summarizes the plan quickly, as Eddie starts to move along the wall, quick but alert. It is hard to miss where the gunfire is coming from, but he can not be sure that there are not more hiding further back, waiting for them to break cover. The little outpost has a strange configuration, no straight road bisecting two neat lines of buildings; instead, they are dotted in such a way as to cut through lines of sight until you rounded the next corner, like some sort of demented jigsaw puzzle. 

It is great for cover, and possibly the only reason his team is still alive. It is also a pain in the ass, for trying to get to the action without getting shot at too soon. These bastards are just full of ambushes today; Eddie is not going to put another past them. 

He clears the next corner quickly, the remains of his team following in formation, and that is about when the time for caution and stealth is kicked abruptly to the curb. Quite literally, in fact: the soldier that appears out from behind another wall is in the middle of kicking a hostile in the chest, sending man and weapon sprawling into Eddie's path. He kicks the gun further away automatically, sees the moment the guy clocks their group. 

"Sky Fall, got eyes," he saids quickly, breathing heavy and head angled towards his shoulder, and Eddie thinks, _Navy._ He takes a step towards their group, and it is in that moment that the downed hostile surges upwards, a smaller gun in hand. 

Eddie jerks, moving on autopilot, but there is no need. There is a half-whispered shout of "Buck!" and then the insurgent is dropping before Eddie — or the Navy man — can get off the shot. Another of the new team has appeared from the last point of their little crossroads, gun lowering as he jogs towards them. 

"Hide and seek's not over yet," the first (callsign Buck, probably) says, nodding to his buddy and then scanning Eddie and his team. "Ready to help us go hunting?" 

"Pair off and go," Eddie orders swiftly, as his team fans out immediately and goes to join the firefight. The bursts of shots are getting shorter, spaced out, the battle becoming less of a shootout and more of a— well, hide and seek was not a terrible description. He steps closer to the Navy guys, Fenn tracking at his shoulder. "We'll sweep these two. I don't want any of those bastards circling back to my guys." 

Their back-up exchange loaded glances, an instant, silent conversation occurring before the shorter one starts to talk into his comm. "Sky Fall, this Smokehouse, friendlies joining the fight. Clearing quadrant." 

"You, with me," Buck says, nodding to Eddie before turning towards the building to the right. Where the insurgents had originally been holed up, Eddie notes, even as something crackles in his blood at the order. Now is not the time, however, so when Smokehouse claps Fenn's shoulder and heads for the second building, Eddie does not say anything. He just falls into step, focus back on the mission. 

"How many?" Eddie asks lowly as they clear the first floor (two rooms, empty) and start up the first set of stairs. He does not even bother to question it when Buck moves to go first, seeing how he gets that technically mission control belongs to the rescuing party. Still, it grates, just a bit. 

"Four," comes the hushed reply, his hand raising once he reaches the top step. Eddie stops, ready to cover for him, as Buck eases forward and into the room. His hand curls and Eddie steps after, instinctively putting his back to Buck's as they check both corners. 

Eddie goes right and Buck goes left in unspoken agreement, and by the time they meet at yet another set of stairs — this is the tallest of the sad array of buildings at a stunning three floors — Eddie has turned that over a few times. Navy, four-man fire team, undoubtedly a Night Stalker up in that helo. "SEALs?" 

The grin that Buck gives him, quick, is a little unnerving. He is already heading up the stairs, however, so Eddie takes that as confirmation and follows. He has no problem with the Navy, really, and less of an issue with SEALs — but he has never had to _personally_ work with any, and the shit some of the guys on base have muttered about them is the only frame of reference he has at the moment. _Cocky bastards_ seems to be the consensus, and Eddie can see that. 

They clear the last floor in a matter of moments, take the stairs back down significantly faster than they went up, Buck talking into his comm as he hits the lower floor. "Smokehouse, this is Salty Dog, we're clear here."

Eddie cannot hear the response, but it must be all clear on their end as well. "I thought your callsign was Buck?"

The SEAL looks up, blinking at him, and then gives a shake of his head. He heads for the door, calling back, "Nope," and that is... not exactly enlightening, and rather annoying, actually. Maybe Smokehouse had yelled _duck_ , but this guy chooses to clarify nothing. 

Eddie is too busy keeping an eye out as they make their way back towards the last two buildings, and honestly, he does not really care enough to be too irked. Smokehouse and Fenn are there moments later, and they step into the last building across the way while Eddie leads Buck into the rendezvous site. "Bosko?"

"Here, Sarg," she calls, rising to her feet from where she had been knelt by Scott. Her gaze sweeps the SEAL at his side briefly before she has eyes on Eddie again. "Scotty's getting worse, but the others are still doing okay. We moving out?" 

Eddie pauses, listening, but the firing has stopped. _Salty Dog_ tilts his head, not unlike his namesake, listening to his headset. "We've got an all clear. C'mon, let's get you out of here."

This day has been shitty enough that Eddie cannot find it in him to be relieved, because chances are, it will all go to shit again soon. He will feel relief when he is sitting back at base and all of his team is patched up. Well, most of his team. Guilt pings through his chest at the thought of Rosewater, but he pushes it down.

Smokehouse and Fenn appear in the doorway, and Eddie says, "Scotty can't walk, and I'm doubtful about Reyes." TC Johnson is already on his feet, stretching up slowly and gingerly. That only leaves one, who needs no explanation, and Eddie's gut twists.

"Scotty's out," Bosko corrects, and at Eddie's sharp look she adds, "Still stable, for now, but we should get moving." 

The SEALs have already started moving, Smokehouse stepping up to Bosko to confer rapidly about their strategy. Salty Dog, however, steps past Eddie almost before he notices him moving, and the second he catches his trajectory, his hackles rise. 

"I've got him," Eddie says, catching Salty Dog's shoulder to stop him before he can reach for his fallen teammate. He's a whole lot taller than Eddie, he notices, when the guy glances over his shoulder at him with a scowl. His gaze drops to Eddie's hand, holding him firmly in place, but Eddie lets go only to step around him. 

"You should help them." Eddie ignores him, already tuning out whatever bullshit he's about to say as the medic crouches to get a hold on his guy. Timothy Rosewater looks far too young in death. "Listen, dude, the weight—"

Wisely, the SEAL refrains from saying _dead weight_ , but Eddie catches the slight inflection in his voice that says it is a near thing. He knows, he _knows_ , that this guy would have an easier time of it if they came under fire again. Eddie does not care. He grits his teeth, lifting Rosewater's still form into a fireman's carry, and snaps, "I'm taking him." 

When he straightens, it is with a glare and a challenging set of his jaw. By the look on the guy's face, he thinks he might fight it, but then Smokehouse calls, "Buck."

"Fine," Salty Dog — _Buck_ , after all, and what is that, a name? — huffs and turns away, swiftly taking in the state of affairs and assigning himself to carrying Scott instead. Bosko and Smokehouse have managed to get Reyes up on his feet, if not very alert, and Johnson looks dizzy but okay. Eddie follows them out last, and tries to leave the grief behind him in that room. It is impossible with Rosewater's weight pressing down on him. 

It is stilted and awkward going, but they are soldiers and they are quick about it, even injured. It helps that this hellhole of a town really is not all that large, spitting them out near their busted up MEDSOV in mere minutes, maybe less than one. The rest of his team is there, grouped loosely around the remaining two SEALs. They have already recovered three litters from the truck, and Eddie can only murmur a quiet thanks when one of his team helps lower Rosewater onto one. He wants to do the straps himself, but he knows that he needs to figure out what comes next, so he lets him take over and rises to his feet.

The SEALs are talking quietly when Eddie approaches, not _really_ separated from his guys but standing close together in a way that screams _exclusive_. He is too tired for this, honestly, but before he gets to them, one of the two he has not met yet is stepping out to meet him half-way. 

"Lieutenant Commander Matthew Griffon," he greets, holding out a hand politely, and Eddie kind of wants to laugh hysterically. Sure, the danger is past, _for now_. He is just surprised that this guy, with soot and sand and sweat smudged on his face and his combat gear ruffled, is bothering. 

"Staff Sergeant Eddie Diaz," he says, because this man just saved his team and he is not an asshole. He appreciates the gesture, even if he does not have the energy for it. Matt's grip is firm, but there is none of that dominance-ploy crushing going on when they shake. He appreciates that even more, coming from a SEAL.

"We shouldn't have any more surprises from here on out," Griffon says and, from behind him, one of the others groans. Eddie's gaze flickers over the Lt. Commander's shoulder, meeting Buck's briefly, before returning. "Our pilot has cleared the area and is on her way back for evac now."

"Thanks, Commander," he says, but he hears it when Buck hisses to one of his buddies, _"Way to jinx it,"_ and cannot help the flare of irritation. Instead of letting it rile him more (how can he be _joking_ right now?), he nods to Griffon and goes to wait with his men, holding sentry over Rosewater's litter. It is not a very long vigil; not nearly as long as he deserves.

When the helo makes its way back around, touching down slowly, Eddie waits until all of his men are already loaded, and then for the three SEALs to climb aboard after a nod from their Commander. 

Wordlessly, Griffon helps him lift the litter. Together, they climb into the Chinook last. 

As the Chinook starts to climb, Griffon looks around the helo slowly and then nods to one of his team. A sat phone appears from the guy's ruck, and Eddie feels hollowed out when Griffon says into it, "Vandy 1, this is Sky Fall. Package secured."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is where I give a disclaimer that this fic should not be interpreted as military propaganda or necessarily approval of the attitude the guys have regarding their missions; Buck's voice here is an attempt to be true to his personality + the mindset that you see in Special Forces, in the Middle East.  
> 2\. "Night Stalker" is a nickname for SOAR aviators.  
> 3\. "Bravo," when used to tell time, refers to the military term for EET (GMT+2). It is used in communications to make sure everyone is operating on the same clock.  
> 4\. "Frogmen" is a term used to refer to SEAL operators. Also "frogs" (for short) or "tadpoles" (BUD/S, new recruits).  
> 5\. Fast-roping refers to sliding out of a moving helicopter via rope, typically straight into action.  
> 6\. TC is short-hand for "truck commander," i.e. someone specialized in driving the RSOV vehicles.  
> 7\. SDF, or the Syrian Democratic Forces, are the anti-regime backed by the United States.  
> 8\. The Navy wears green / tan for combat, too. However, the style is a touch different than the Army, hence Eddie identifying Buck on sight. (He's not in blue, just the usual combat gear.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bout to go awol for exams. pls pray 4 me

They have to tank the MEDSOV. It is not entirely unexpected; the engine is wrecked, tires flat, and after this shit show, a rescue mission for the vehicle probably is not in order. So, they have to destroy it before it can become scrap metal for the enemy.

Eddie watches Bosko watch mournfully as Griffon adjusts one of the Chinook's M240s. He resolutely does not watch the SEAL that leans next to his Commander, chattering something loudly about abuses of power and injustices. Eddie thinks if he pays too much attention, the vaguely cheerful tone in the guy's voice and the clear air of amusement radiating from him will set him off completely. 

"Give it up, Buck," someone says, and Eddie clocks the fourth and final SEAL of the unit: more slender than the rest — though undoubtedly no less lethal — with a vaguely serene look on his face. Calm, collected. "Griff can outshoot you in his sleep."

As exhausted as his team is, there are still a few chuckles. Eddie feels a touch vindicated when Buck sputters some non-denial, but the stab of petty joy is short-lived when the guy abandons his station and folds his long body into the seat beside Smokehouse instead. 

Directly across from Eddie. 

"Matty can outshoot this entire helo in his sleep," Buck says, mulish, and Eddie finds that statement to be a bit presumptuous. "Doesn't mean he should hog all the fun." 

"Hey, that was my baby," Bosko cuts in from Eddie's right, leaning forward in her own seat slightly, "Watch it, squid."

Buck's attention snaps to Bosko, acute and curious, and his eyes are very blue. Eddie notices this before he realizes that he has looked over at Buck, damnit, but it is too late now. Now that he _is_ looking, he cannot look away from the childish glee that takes over the SEAL's face. "Squid, really? I haven't heard that one in ages." He looks like he might say more, dig deep for some nicknames of his own, but the _click-click-click_ of a machine gun firing rapidly rings out and draws all of their attention away. 

Griffon peers through the scope, assessing, and then straightens up, one hand going to his headset. "We're clear, Wilson."

There is very little ceremony about the way that the helo finally leaves her hover to turn towards base. Griffon secures the weapon and takes a seat at the end of the line of his guys, and Eddie notes that even up in the air, the SEALs have banded together: all four in a row, with Rangers scattered beside and across from them. It seems unfair that Buck is the one right across from Eddie, particularly when he probably has more to say to Griffon, anyway. 

It is tense and awkward for a moment, lacking the camaraderie of a typical flight. SEALs do not billet out with non-Operators as a rule, and the Rangers are not much better. It is a bit easier to skip over the tension with other Army soldiers, but it is sort of the M.O. of the Special Forces to playfully shit on one another, not to mention the out-standing Army-Navy rivalry. It does not lend itself to immediate friendship, even if there are not any actual hard feelings. 

"So." Of course, _of course_ , it is Buck who speaks first, cutting straight through the vague discomfort and exhaustion in the air. Eddie looks at him and then decides not to, staring instead at the patch that reads _Buckley_ on his chest. "How'd everything go FUBAR?" 

He turns and looks right at Eddie when he says it, eyes wide and innocent, and Eddie sort of wants to deck him. He cannot be positive that this guy meant it as an insult, but it sure feels like one just then. Eddie exhales slowly and does his best not to glare at the man who had helped save his team. "Honestly? Haven't quite figured that out myself, yet." He remembers something then and frowns. "They shouldn't have even had an RPG. They would have used it before if they did." 

"They didn't use it on our truck," Bosko agrees, "Or try to take out the base house."

Buck glances to the side, towards his Commander, and Eddie reads something in his expression almost in the exact moment that he comes to the same conclusion himself. "They were saving it for you. We were the bait."

There are noises of displeasure and disgruntlement and, yeah, Eddie is pretty pissed with the realization too. One of his men is dead, and Scotty is still fighting for his life as Logan works on him in the back. His jaw clenches, tight, and then he forces it to relax, reminds himself that losing his shit is bad form in front of his team and particularly front of a _Team_. 

"Seems likely," the fourth and as of yet nameless SEAL says from his spot to Buck's left. "They were ready for the thermal, had those space blankets to cloak their signatures. Wilson couldn't get a read on them from the sky until they were already lighting us up." A pause as they all chew that over, and then he adds, politely, while holding out his hand in an odd echo of his CO, "Josh Russo." 

"Eddie Diaz," he says, accepting the shake tiredly and leaning back to half-listen as Bosko leans over him to introduce herself and Fenn chimes in with his own greeting. He can hear others starting to talk down the line, glances sideways to see a few of his guys gesturing something as they speak to Griffon. The tension dissolves, nice and slow. Eddie closes his eyes and tips his head back, taking the moment to breathe. 

"I'm Buck," the guy across from him puts in, interrupting Eddie's steadily growing calm, and he opens his eyes to look at him. He looks young, younger than Eddie had first thought, and maybe that is why he is so obnoxiously up-beat and energetic after a run like that. Like a kid playing games. 

Bosko, again, saves him from having to make conversation with this guy. This _kid_ , really. "What's the deal with Salty Dog, anyway? Sounds like you should be Little Fawn, or something." 

Eddie grins at the affronted look on Buck's face, and Smokehouse starts laughing. "That's a good one, Buck. I'm going to tell Matt to use it next time." He glances at them and adds, "I'm Howard Han, but please, for the love of God, call me Chimney." 

"They're paint colors," Buck puts in, choosing to bypass Bosko's comment and not giving Eddie the time to finally ask what kind of name Buck is, anyway. It is not like he had not realized it is short for Buckley, and it would have just sounded bitchy. "Sherwin-Williams. Did you know they have over 1,700 colors?" 

It sounds like an oddly precise thing to know, like something off of a Wikipedia page, and Eddie privately thinks that no one should sound that excited about paint. It is... it is not endearing, because all it shows is how weird this guy really is. He is opening his mouth before he registers the intention to speak. "Yeah? Any of those named Fawn?"

Bosko snorts a laugh, but Eddie is too busy looking at Buck as he looks right back. His tone was maybe too dry, and maybe Buck picked up on it: something unreadable crosses his face, his look a bit pensive before he evidently decides on a course of action. The resulting grin is bright, but laced with something devious. "They've got a Soft Fawn, actually, and an Antler Velvet. They also have a Bravado Red and an Obstinate Orange."

Paint colors. He is being insulted with paint colors, he is pretty sure. Eddie narrows his eyes, sets his jaw, and decides that he is just not going to dignify that baiting comment with an answer. He has had enough with bait for one day, and he is in no mood to play games.

"There's an At Ease Soldier, too," Buck adds, just shy of gleeful. 

_That's it_ , he thinks, and the thing is, Eddie has painted a house before. He has helped choose colors, smudged samples on the walls to test that they were the right shade, laughed at the colorful fingerprints that he left on his wife. His ex-wife. Whatever. He knows a few paint names, is the point, and he is suddenly struck with the memory of some of them. "Is that right? I think my favorite of theirs is Quietude." 

That grin collapses, and Buck scowls at him, evidently incapable of having his own antics thrown back at him. Childish. It is _childish_ , and Eddie is glad when the SEAL turns towards his buddy — Josh, isn't it? — and starts chattering at _him_ about paint. He ignores the weight of Bosko's gaze, resolutely not looking at her, and closes his eyes again, determined to tune them all out, if only just for their short hop back to al-Tanf. 

The look on Rosewater's face when he had realized he had been shot waits for him in the dark, but Eddie keeps his eyes shut anyway, just as unwilling to consult the living right then, too. 

—

This Army guy is tense as all hell. Buck cannot really help himself, the urge to poke and prod at him practically second nature; he can tell that he does not like him much, and that only makes the urge even greater. Maddie has been saying for years that Buck is a certified, grade-A brat, and there is very little evidence to the contrary. He can admit that. 

Still, he is not _completely_ clueless. Sergeant Diaz has had a long day, so when he shuts his eyes again, Buck does not press the issue any more. He just looks at the guy for a moment, studying the lines of his face, and then turns his attention to the lady — Lena Bosko, first and only female Ranger that Buck has met. She must be impressive shit. 

She is also looking right back at him, one brow arched in challenge when she meets his gaze. _Definitely_ impressive shit, and Buck grins at her, open and careless. "Hey, is it true that they starve you guys?"

Lena blinks at him, and then a smile of her own emerges when she realized what he is asking about. (They are famously kind about food in BUD/S, after all, and he has always been curious about the rumors around Ranger School.) She shifts, turning more fully towards Buck (and Josh, who Buck can feel leaning closer to listen), and rests her forearms on her knees as she leans forward. "Damn straight. What, they don't starve you in SEAL school?"

"BUD/S," Josh speaks up, earning a look from both of them. "What? That's what it's called."

"He's a nerd," Buck stage-whispers to Lena, grinning when his buddy shoves his shoulder and pushes him into Chimney, who shoves him back. "And nah, they just tried to kill us every other way. You ever been drowned?"

"Not in the Army." Lena looks smug, her smile taking on a mysterious cant, and Buck is immediately burning with curiosity. Not _in the Army_. So where _has_ she been drowned? Maybe she has a decorated past as a secret agent. Maybe she has a violent ex-husband with a pool. She speaks up before Buck can pepper her with any of his theories, however. "I should have known they take it easy on you Navy boys."

" _Whoa_ , hey now!" The blonde draws himself up a little straighter, trying to look affronted and failing as his grin stretches higher. " _Easy?_ I'm sorry, did _you_ have to do surf torture a thousand times a day? _Torture_ , G.I., torture." 

"Actually," Chimney says suddenly, evidently deciding to enter the fray, "I thought Steel Pier was the worst."

A full body shudder goes through Buck as he is vividly reminded of the pure, pure hell that was the Steel Pier, and he agrees immediately: "That. Definitely that." At Lena's arched brow, he adds, "Picture yourself, naked, jumping into the Pacific Ocean in the middle of the night in the _winter_ and then laying down on a metal monstrosity and getting hosed down by a bunch of demonic power-trippy fiends. And then doing it over and over again for hours."

The Ranger makes a face, and on her other side, one of the other guys gives them a cringing, sympathetic look. "Okay, that's pretty fucked. But _I_ got stuck in the mountains in the middle of winter for 38 hours, once." Buck makes a noise of interest, intrigued, and Lena grins. "We were supposed to be on a 24 hour patrol, no biggie, just straight up a damn mountain in the middle of a snowstorm. My troop got thrown off the trail and stranded for a bit longer." 

"Damn," Buck whistles in appreciation, wincing slightly at the thought of the snow. Sure, he was never dry during Hell Week and spent the entire time _very_ cold, but at least it was _water_. That was marginally better, in his mind. "Bet you got hell for that, too." 

"Oh, yeah." Lena gets a far off look of disgruntled disgust on her face, an expression that Buck knows well: it is the same face any one of his buddies makes when forced to remember the sheer number of sugar cookies suffered in one day — hell, in one _hour._ "You know, I think SERE was worse, though. At least I knew what to expect with Ranger School." 

"No shit? I thought SERE was fun." The blonde holds up a hand when Lena lets out a loud scoff. "Okay, look, it totally sucked, but I actually liked it better than BUD/S. Different skill set, you know?"

"You're insane," Lena says at the same time that Josh clucks, "Freak." 

Buck magnanimously ignores Chim's laughter and Josh leaning over to tap his knuckles to Lena's. He just shakes his head, smiling, and his gaze catches on the man across from him once more. His eyes are still closed, but Buck doubts that he is actually asleep; too much adrenaline, too much tension. He burns with curiosity, wants to shake the guy's knee and interrogate _him_ about Ranger School and what he had thought about SERE, wants to ask about the medic patch he saw on the guy's shoulder earlier. He also kind of wants to apologize about his friend, the one this team had lost. 

Lena has started talking to Chimney, her attention off of Buck for the moment, and he slides a foot forward to nudge Eddie's subtly, trying to get his attention casually just in case the guy really is asleep. "Hey, Doc." 

The Ranger opens his eyes after a moment, dark brown stare fixed on Buck with something just barely unreadable but vaguely hostile, but before Buck can say anything Wilson is crackling over the comms, _"On approach now, boys."_

"We're entering descent," Buck says, as if that is what he wanted to say all along, because the Ranger unit is not on their comms frequency and hadn't heard her. It is not what he had in mind at all, but Eddie's stare has shifted into more of a glare, and Buck gets the impression that he is not open for conversation at the moment. Or possibly ever. 

A second ticks by as Eddie just looks at him, and then he says flatly, "Alright." He turns towards the radioman at his side (Buck is pretty sure he said his name was Fenn), a clear dismissal, and starts talking quietly, just a touch too quiet for Buck to listen in without straining. 

Well, okay then. 

—

When they land, there is a bit more fanfare involved than the first time Foxtrot came in. There is personnel on the ground, waiting to direct the wounded and point Matt in the right direction, SEALs and Rangers alike mingling on the airstrip to get ahold of their missing teammates. Buck hangs back, watching Chim and Josh lead their charges out into the fray, helping to carry the litters with the injured soldiers. Matt follows at the rear and stops only to look back at Buck, who waves him on with a nod. His Commander arches a brow and then steps out, allowing it.

When they are gone, Eddie Diaz is the only one left, standing vigil over the fallen man in the back on the helo. They will be sending up a proper casket, something more sturdy than the battered and exposed litter. It might not be the real deal, not yet; there will be flags and uniformed solutes when the man is brought home for real, but they will do what they can for this first descent. No doubt, those members of his team who are not ferried off to the med tents will be waiting outside to see him down. 

"What're you still doing here?" Eddie asks after a moment, his back to Buck and his voice low. 

And, well. The thing is that Matt could have stayed back, probably would have if he had not seen Buck already lingering. There is no real reason for Buck to be the one to stay, other than the fact that he cannot help it: he felt the urge and acted on it. On some level, he still feels a little bit like he let this guy down, not being the one to see him off the battlefield like he was supposed to. He cannot say _that_ to Eddie, though, so instead he just says, "They'll be wanting to talk to Matty right away. It's better if I stay instead."

"I'm here." There is a note of dismissal in his tone, and Buck is reminded, again, of that safe house; of this medic, insisting he do it all himself. 

Buck rolls his eyes, comfortable with the fact that the guy's back is turned to him, and tries to keep his tone neutral. "This is still our mission, Doc. I'm not going any where until it's complete."

Eddie makes a noise, something between a snort and a grunt of disapproval, and Buck watches as his shoulders go even more rigid. God, could this dude be any more tense? He gets it, he does — this was a long, messy ass mission, and there is a man ( _a good man_ , he is sure) dead — but Eddie's attitude feels a little more personal in nature. It grates, because Buck does not even _know_ him, and he certainly does not know Buck. 

When another few seconds tick by and it becomes clear that Eddie is not going to respond further, Buck swallows down a sigh and crosses his arms. He considers, for a moment, just keeping his mouth shut and standing in silence for the remainder of their wait, but... No one has ever claimed that Buck knows how to shut up, or when to stop pushing. 

"So," he says after another stilted moment, lightening his tone intentionally, "What's your worst Ranger School story?" 

Silence. Buck watches the question land, sees Eddie still and then go even more tense before his shoulders shift, just slightly. When he starts to turn around, finally, Buck thinks he might have managed to distract the guy out of his mood, but then he sees the glare: hot with anger, cold with disdain. "What is this, a game to you?" 

"Excuse me?" the blonde hisses, straightening up out of his slouch in offense. A _game_? What the hell is that supposed to mean? 

"Are you having _fun?_ " Eddie demands, taking a clipped step closer. There is still so much space between them, a good yard and a half, but Buck feels that step like the threat that it is. "Because, you know, it kind of seems like you're having fun."

Buck stares at him, unsure if he is more baffled or angry at the accusation. He settles on angry, and is talking before he can think better of it. "Jesus, dude, what's your problem?" 

" _You're_ my problem." The Ranger makes a gesture towards Buck, as if indicating his very existence, and then just shakes his head and turns around again. "Look, let's just not talk, okay?" 

Matt will have his head if he starts a fight with one of their objectives. He will not— he _will not_ — pick a fight with this guy, and you know what? Buck does not even want to. He is long past the age of feeling the need to force friendships, and he does not _need_ whatever this grudge is that Eddie has against him. It is not like he is going to see him again, anyway, so what is the point? 

"Yeah, whatever," the blonde says flatly, and waits in pointed silence all the way up until the moment that two men appear with a wooden casket between them.

When they do, Buck gives them a nod and sees himself out of the helo, taking his place at the end of the line of soldiers waiting to see their fallen back to the base. Out here, the silence feels meaningful, it feels _right_. Buck does not mind it as they wait. It helps that Chimney is at his side, a physical reminder of the fact that he has a team, a family, and that _they_ do not have a problem with Buck. 

When Eddie Diaz appears, Buck pointedly does not make eye contact. He is not looking down the line, anyway; he stops just to the right of the ramp, and raises a stiff salute. The group follows silently, Buck included, and they watch soberly as Timothy Rosewater is announced and then carried down. It is a grim affair, and a hard reminder.

The Rangers turn and follow in a quiet procession, their Sergeant following last. Buck watches him as he passes, catches the flicker of a glance towards him, and then Eddie is gone and the SEALs are the only ones left on the airstrip. Buck lets the tension go, and turns towards Matt expectantly. Chim and Josh are already looking at him. 

"You did good," the Commander says after a moment, clapping each of them on the shoulder briefly with a tired half-smile. "Quick clean up, alright? We're gonna brief in 20." 

"Hey, that's 15 extra minutes," Josh says with a grin, and Buck huffs a laugh. "You did good too, boss." 

Matt rolls his eyes, but he is smiling. "Yeah, thanks, _Mint_. Get moving." 

"Aye, aye," the three of them chime mockingly, but they get moving as ordered. 

Buck is really, really looking forward to that shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Squid" is a vaguely insulting nickname for Navy soldiers.  
> 2\. "Billeted out" refers to how teams and soldiers are billeted/assigned to helicopters, etc. SEALs do not fly with others.  
> 3\. FUBAR = military slang, "fucked up beyond all recognition".  
> 4\. Fun fact: thermal emergency/space blankets can go a long way towards blocking infrared thermal sensors.  
> 5\. Re: Lena; the Rangers only recently started admitting women to Ranger School, and as of 2020 only 50 have graduated. It is (unfortunately) still a bit of a rarity.  
> 6\. Sugar cookies are a form of "punishment" in BUD/S, wherein the guys have to get in the ocean and then roll around in the sand and shove it into their clothes. They are also frequently imposed just because, so it's not quite a real punishment.  
> 7\. Side note: I'm not taking a stance on the Ranger School versus BUD/S debate. They're different, and you've got guys who have been through both on both sides of the argument. Pretty much everyone agrees that they are both tough as shit, though, so who cares?  
> 8\. [SERE](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Survival,_Evasion,_Resistance_and_Escape) \- Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape - is a military training program designed to train for survival, capture, interrogation, etc. It is often colloquially referred to a "torture school" because students are pretty much tortured as part of the process. A lot of what goes on is classified. All SEALs take a SERE course as part of qualification; it is also mandatory for Rangers in the 75th Regiment to take a course.


End file.
